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ophelia

Today I am lying face down in the river. Eyes to the unknown depths and palms to the sky putting on my Ophelia, my schizophrenic frenzie to please the legion that is the ubiquitous “they.” The ways I shave myself bald with self loathing, the ways I wrap my gentle flesh in bandages of stub-my-toe frustrations that know no end; crucified and resurrected like the ritual massacre of my skin cells tormented by time and exiled.

I, who am a parody of myself watch the re-runs daily with popcorn and wonder how often I will repeat the lines that are my one lesson. The great white whale that I can’t seem to find in my bathroom sink. God I hated that novel. God I hate this one. Same boring plotline same fickle heroin same endless chapters of mundane bullshit that might somehow lead me to a resolution but will most likely suck me dry and spit me out somewhere on the other side of the story’s moral.

He took a photograph once that described me. I was somewhat frightened to see what I had disclosed under the influence. I wanted to take the bastard child of my amputated insecurities set to paper and run from him, his far reaching fingers dancing with dried up veins and the ways he would unpeel my naked body with his wretched bleary old man eyes. I thought of the portrait today in my duress and remembered or gathered or circled about the idea that there is no logic to the bestowal of fortune. There is no absolute that says a trophy or an illustrated book or a few million slobbering sycophants can justify the gifts of any human being over unborn children of another. There is nothing that says the man riding off into the blazes is hero. Warhol was apathetic, Pollock was drunk, Lennon was hopelessly self involved and Amy was a thief a whore and a liar. But never absolutely. Walking figures of cracked and repatched cement clutched together barely with their own two concealing hands, never and always to reveal the untruths housed in more or less four tall walls and a nineteenth century chimney and the latest shiny new SUV.

And I am floating face down in the river and the visions are passing me by, dancing or sleeping or pissing by the riverside. This water is sucking the youth from my skin and the hope from my heart but my heart is still beating and my muse is still scratching away and I suppose in the end that is all the matters

for me.

3:01 a.m. - 2004-10-02
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